Sherlost
by Eloquence991
Summary: For years, everyone has known Sherlock Holmes as a brilliant man, one of the best detectives London has ever seen. But what happens when the great detective awakes in a hospital to find that he can not only remember anything, but he has lost his deductive powers? [AU, moments of Johnlock, will keep T for a precaution]


"SHERLOCK!"

John Watson was screaming. Then he was running. And then he was falling to his knees in the middle of the street, trying his best not to breathe through his nose so he wouldn't smell the metallic scent of blood that permeated in the cold air. He could only stare in trembling horror at the man whom he had fallen beside, the man whose black curls were now gently soaked in blood as his body lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. The man's mouth was slightly parted, his eyes closed as he fell unconscious. John screamed again.

The truck driver was at his side, a lanky man with pure terror in his eyes as he stood in front of his blood splattered hood. "I didn't see… I never meant- I'm sosososo sorry-" He continued stumbling over his words, but John stopped listening.

"Sherlock," John's voice was loud, but he wasn't shouting. "Don't die on me, please stay with me, don't even think about dying…" His words got cut off as he felt the fear and hurt and shock all wash over him, and without warning the tears filled his eyes and he broke, laying himself over Sherlock in a way as to try and prevent his precious body from taking any more damage. He sobbed into his blood splattered shirt, and even with his jacket round him he felt miserably cold.

"Sherlock…" The crowd that had gathered watched in shocked silence, their minds struggling to comprehend what they had just witnessed. The sound of distant sirens was heard over John's wailing.

"SHERLOCK!" John Watson screamed again, a mournful sound, and then the ambulance was there.

…

Slowly, the dark silence of his subconscious mind faded away and returned him with tender care back into the world of conscious in which he belonged. His lungs expanded as he found himself taking a loud shuddering breath, and then the wave of white hot agony exploded in him and he was at the mercy of his emotions. His muscles tensed painfully, and he let out a sharp cry as his eyes suddenly opened. The world was white and blurry and he couldn't see through the silent tears that had accompanied the pain. Then slowly, the pain subsided to a conscious ache as his vision returned. He wiped his eyes, and in a moment, the rest of his senses followed. He heard the beeping of a machine nearby, and the sterile feel of his environment told him that this was a hospital.

He looked across the room, taking in the area. The walls were painted eggshell white, and the floor was made of tile. The lights were off, but a single window let the daylight pour through and light the room in that manner. White curtains made of thin silk blew slowly in the breeze that passed through the window. Somehow, he felt as if there was something missing, as if there should have been something else he should be seeing within the room that was just not there. The only other thing in the room besides the big hospital bed and the little bedside table with a vase of half wilted flowers, along with a corner with a small pile of wrapped gifts and a few "Get Well Soon" balloons, was a single chair that stood in the other corner, an upholstered, cream colored thing that currently had someone sitting in it.

He looked at the crumpled man who sat there, his head favoring his right side as he slept in the chair. The man had short blonde locks that were messy on his head. His face as smooth in sleep, and his features were soft and almost had a round look about them. The man wore a jacket over a cream colored pullover with dark pants and shoes. By the side of the chair lay a crumpled pile of clothes, and on top of it a neatly folded blue scarf.

He sat up timidly, and instantly felt a cold chill pass over him. He looked down at himself and saw that he was wearing only a thin hospital gown. He looked longingly to the pile of clothes that was by the man, and somehow he knew that those were his. He went to get out of the bed, but felt a sharp tug at his arm. He looked and saw the IV attached to him, and with a grimace pulled it out. He then got out of bed quietly, as to not disturb the man, and crossed the room to pick up the clothes. Carefully, he laid them out on the hospital bed that was still war from where he had been laying.

The clothes before him instantly struck him as vaguely familiar, but from where he could not tell. There was a white suit shirt that a dried red something splattered across it, along with dark pants. There was a black trench coat as well, which seemed to have the most of the stain upon it. The scarf too was stained. He was about to put it all back on the ground and stay with the gown when he felt the breeze again and he decided to put the clothes on.

His fingers quickly undid the back ties of the nightgown, and it fell softly to the floor. He picked up the shirt and had only just put it on when he heard the man stirring behind him. He winced and turned to face the man, who was waking up from his unknown time of sleep.

"Mmm…" The man slowly opened his eyes, and then seeing him standing there it was as if all sleep had vanished and he flinched in his chair, his eyes wide in terror and mouth open in a small "o" of shock.

"I didn't mean to wake you, I'm terribly sorry," he was speaking, his voice trembling as he tried explaining himself. "The gown was cold and I didn't-" He stopped and looked down at himself, realization hitting him that he was naked without the shirt. He could feel his face turning scarlet as he looked away from the man.

"Sh-…" The man's voice stammered, and then he was on his feet. "Sherlock!" In a moment the man was holding him in a fond embrace as the man's face buried deep into his bare chest. He turned his mouth away a bit to speak. "You're awake, I'm so glad you're okay, they said that you-"

There was a knock at the door, and a man with dark hair and a white lab coat entered the room. The new man looked at the scene in shock before saying, "Mr. Holmes, you're awake!"

"Yes, I was trying to apologize to Mr. Holmes for waking him up, but I-" He stopped talking when he felt the man hugging him tense. Suddenly, he let go, and backed away, looking at him with a look of horror almost. The doctor and the man exchanged a glance before looking at him again.

"Sherlock…?" the man was at a loss of words.

"What does that mean? Sherlock… is that like a curse word or something?" He looked at both of them in confusion, not understanding what was happening.

"The doctor approached him and sat him down on the bed. "That's your name. You're Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

He ran the name through his mind, processing it. Sherlock Holmes. "Did my parents hate me? It sounds rather ridiculous to me."

The man whom had been hugging him only moments before looked at him with a blank stare. Sherlock noticed his eyes, their color a mesmerizing blue. The reminded him of deep wells of water in which something drowned.

The doctor fussed over him for a few minutes, before speaking again. "I can't see anything really wrong with him, his injuries have all healed. I think we may be dealing with memory loss or some kind, but without running a few tests…"

The man looked at the doctor, saying nothing. As if some kind of telepathic message was exchanged between the two, the doctor mumbled something under his breath before quickly leaving the room. The door closed and Sherlock was left with the man.

"Do you mind if I finish getting dressed?" Sherlock asked quietly, trying to break the tension that was quickly filling the room.

"By all means, please do," the man replied, his voice without emotion.

Sherlock felt like a schoolboy who had just gotten yelled at by the headmaster as he quickly got his clothes on. There were no under garments amongst the clothes, so with a wounded sigh he went without. He got his shirt buttoned and tucked in to his trousers before looking to the trench coat and scarf. He considering leaving them of for a moment, but then decided to go ahead and put them on first. As he adjusted the scarf and buttoned the trench coat, he felt that the action was familiar, just as familiar as the clothing. He hated how he couldn't pinpoint from where, and he turned to face the man.

"How do I look?" he asked, giving a smile as he sat back on the bed.

The man looked at him for a moment, as if surprised by something. "You're smiling."

Sherlock quickly stopped, unsure how exactly he should be acting.

The man looked at him. "Who are you?" he asked finally.

"Well, I'm Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied. That much he understood.

"No, no, _who _are you? What do you do? What's your family like?"

Sherlock found that after a moment of thought he couldn't answer the man. "I don't know."

The man barked a laugh. "You don't know?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid I do not."

The man was standing. "You, the great Sherlock Holmes, don't know something? That's a first."

"I'm great?" Sherlock looked at the man, who obviously knew more about him that he himself did.

"Yes. And you have made it your life's goal to let everyone know just how great you are," the man's words were bitter, almost venomous, and Sherlock didn't understand why he was so upset.

"I sound horrible," he said finally.

The man looked at him. "You can be, but it's not an all the time thing. There are times when you aren't."

Sherlock looked at him. "How come you know so much about me?"

The man visibly softened, as if understanding what was wrong for the first time. "You really don't remember anything, do you?"

"Am I supposed to remember something?"

"Do you remember your job?"

"No."

"Where you live? Your birthday? Dos any of this ring a bell?" The man's voice was becoming increasingly desperate.

Sherlock pondered momentarily over these things before replying, "No."

"Mycroft. Lestrade. Sally Donovan. Mrs. Hudson. Molly Hooper. For God's sake, Anderson. Don't you remember any of them?"

Sherlock thought for a moment before shaking his head.

"What about Moriarty? Do you remember him at least?"

"I can't say I do."

The man hesitated a moment. "Do you remember John Watson?" he asked slowly.

Somewhere in Sherlock's mind he heard someone quietly screaming. He remembered hands, strong hands, loving hands, hands that could heal and hurt. He remembered a fond embrace, a fleeting glance, a laugh. He remembered the clicking sound of computer keys, the loud report of a gun. Then the memory faded and he found that John Watson was the closest thing he had come to a memory.

He looked to the man and was about to speak, but didn't know what to say. He didn't want to give this man false hope or hurt him if these feeling proved false when he saw this John person again.

"I'm not sure," Sherlock replied slowly.

The man's face flashed hurt for a brief moment before he collapsed back into the chair. "Please tell me you can still deduct. Please say something about the doctor, like that by looking at his wrists or something you discovered a deep secret he has, or that his trousers were from some small shop somewhere because of how they were stitched."

"Um… He is a good doctor because he shines his shoes with a surgeon's precision?" Sherlock prayed silently that he was right.

The man looked at him in a desperate kind of shock. With that look Sherlock knew instantly he had done something wrong, or at least failed whatever test the man had been submitting him to.

At that time the doctor reentered the room, saying something about how he was going to take Sherlock to try and find out just how bad his memory loss was. As he left the room, the look that man in the chair was giving him was enough to tell him something was horribly wrong.

…

Sure enough, whatever the doctor had done proved the fact that Sherlock had slowly guessed: he couldn't remember anything. In fact, according to the doctor, the only thing that seemed to remain in his head was basic information, how to talk, eat, dress… The man listened quietly as the doctor continued his ramble. It was the man who asked the question that had been on Sherlock's mind.

"How long will it take for him to start remembering?"

The doctor looked at Sherlock with a face of sympathy. "Hard to say. With the injuries sustained when he got hit by that truck, I'm actually surprised he woke back up."

At the mention of a truck, Sherlock's mind suddenly exploded with a memory. He was running. There was a honk. Tires squealing. Collision as he came in contact with the vehicle. The screaming of a man, blood filling his mind…

He shook his head, clearing his min to tune back in to the doctor's words. "… can go get checked out, there's nothing else we can really do."

The man stood. "Thank you," he said, and then the doctor left. The man looked at Sherlock for a moment.

"John Watson," he said.

Sherlock looked blankly at him. "I told you-"

"You can't remember him, I know," the man hesitated. "But that's my name. I'm John Watson. John Watson regarded him with a look of sadness for a moment before continuing. "Come on."

Sherlock followed him down the hospital halls, to the desk where John checked him out, and into an elevator.

"Where are we going, exactly?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at him, and for the first time since he had woken up, a small smile played at his lips. "A place called 221B Baker Street."

"What's there?"

"Your memory. We have some work to do, my dear Holmes." And then the doors opened and Sherlock followed John as they left the hospital and into the world beyond.


End file.
